


Half-Assed Hatred

by Desbelleschoses



Series: Roomates from Hell [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 09:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desbelleschoses/pseuds/Desbelleschoses
Summary: Deidara and Sasori are stuck late at the studio to try to finish their projects before the deadline. Fatigue and stress push them both a little too far. SasoDei, Hidan & Deidara, College AU.





	Half-Assed Hatred

Deidara couldn’t feel his legs, which was a blessing; the pain was gone. Even as he shifted his weight, his knees sunk down into the cushion he was kneeling on. It was supposed to help with the unyielding concrete floor of the studio, but he’d been here far longer than he cared to admit. For a moment, he allowed his weight to shift back onto the tops of his feet.

His clay-caked fingers tucked the straight scraper back into his roll, fastening the snap that kept it in place. Careful not to sully the wires on the ends of his tools, he selected the toothed, hardwood piece and tucked it behind his ear. The bowl of water to his left was grimy from the clay, but it still served its purpose. Diligently, he wet the clay at the base of the sculpture, ready to add the detail work to the bird that he’d formed from nothing.

To relieve his spine, the artist lay on his side on the tarp, no care given to his hair or clothes. With meticulous care, his fingers worked the wooden tool into the medium. His earbuds serenaded him with the voice of Billie Joe Armstrong, and his lips moved silently along to the lyrics: _Life’s a cruel crushing bastard crime / But you’re a stupid mother fucker and you’re doing time ‘cause / We’re all-_

A sharp pull yanked the earbud from him, and he scowled when he rolled onto his side just enough to see Sasori looking blankly down at him. The rock music still screeched through the earbud, hissing out barely audible words: _Hanging out all by myself, at least I make good company / Hey, isn’t that a whatshisface that I see walking down the street._

“What?” the sculptor snapped, pushing himself up so that he could sit cross-legged on the floor. He made the mistake of pushing his bangs out of his face with clay-covered fingertips. He huffed, just so that Sasori knew how much he was being interrupted.

“Your friend is here,” Sasori repeated himself for the fifth time, indicating the glass door to the studio with his paintbrush. Night had long since fallen, and the pair were the last ones still working on their pieces. Silently, they competed to see which one of them would give in and be the first to go home.

“The fuck does he want?” Deidara asked rhetorically, shooting Hidan a glare as he got to his feet. His legs, still asleep, sang out with pins and needles as the blood rushed down his body. “Shit,” he hissed, grabbing onto the nearest stable object. To his disgust, this happened to be Sasori’s shoulder. He quickly withdrew his hand and stalked across the studio. From the floor of his workstation, his iPod continued to play, having moved on to a new song: _Hey! / I wanna get inside of you / I wanna crack your cranium delirium / On the lower east side of your mind._

Sasori did them both a favor and hit pause on the device.

Deidara fumbled with the lock, leaving clay residue as he opened the door for his roommate. Hidan strode inside, offering up a bag of takeout like it was the holy grail. “Thought you might want dinner.”

Hidan was a sadistic, raging asshole who could burn in hell for all Deidara cared, but damn if he didn’t love the man. “Thank god,” he breathed, snatching the plastic.

“No need to thank me,” Hidan boasted, and Sasori couldn’t quite tell if he was joking. The ginger sat back down on his stool and went back to work at the canvas which sat on his easel. He changed brushes and began to mix a new pigment.

Suddenly awash with a wave of inexplicable guilt, Deidara warred with himself for several moments over whether or not to be kind to Sasori. The generous gesture would paint him in a good light, perhaps make him the better man on the high road. His pride, however, was too vulnerable with Hidan in the room.

“Any idea when you’ll be out of here?” Hidan asked, jerking his chin in the direction of Deidara’s sculpture.

“No, hn,” the artist grunted. “I’ll probably be a few more hours. Why?”

“Kakuzu and I are gonna go hit up Zetsu then head to Kisame’s.”

Deidara groaned. “Dammit.” This time, he actually did stomp his foot, to Sasori’s private amusement. “I hate my life.”

“You got cash? I’ll score what I can for you,” the grey-haired man offered as a placation.

Deidara reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He fingered through the bills before passing his roommate a twenty. Hidan folded it and stuck it in his jacket pocket. “Quality or quantity?”

“That’s a stupid question.”

Hidan chuckled. “Right. I’ll see you at home, then. Night, Princess. Later, Red!” he added, calling to Sasori with one hand raised. When he left, Deidara took care to lock the door behind him.

Silence reigned over the studio until Sasori ventured, “He seems like an interesting person, when he’s stable.” His eyes never left his canvas.

“Hn.” Deidara pulled out a container of rice, setting it on one of the tables meant for workstations. “We get along alright.” Fuck. The food smelled too damned good. Why was he feeling guilty?! It wasn’t his fault the stupid painter hadn’t brought food for himself. But, then again, neither had he. He was lucky enough to have a considerate roommate who was convinced that he’d wither away working at his art if he wasn’t fed and watered like a puppy.

Deidara grunted, and Sasori glanced back over his shoulder. The blonde had one arm extended, holding out a take-out box in his direction. With another grunt, he waved the box up and down, indicating nonverbally that he wanted Sasori to take it. With caution, the painter stood and crossed the studio, accepting the box from Deidara’s hand. Upon opening it, he saw mixed rice. “What’s wrong with it?” He quirked a single eyebrow.

After swallowing, Deidara informed him, “Nothing. I just hate it. Figured you might want it, otherwise, it’s going in the trash.”

“Thanks?” he questioned, not entirely sure what to make of the gesture. He picked up a spare set of chopsticks and began to eat. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he actually tasted the food. When was the last time he’d eaten? He had to get better about that. He was small enough as he was.

The clock on the far side of the studio told Sasori that it was almost midnight. He was nowhere near done for the evening. Ruefully, he glanced at his canvas, lamenting the loss of his previous project. It was surprising what a tragic loss could do for solidarity. The entire day, he and Deidara had traded insults but twice. Granted, that may be because Deidara had headphones with him this time, but Sasori didn’t feel the usual burning need to insult him. It was foreign, and he didn’t particularly care for the ceasefire. All the same, he wasn’t about to bite the hand that was literally feeding him at the moment.

By the time they’d finished eating, it was half past midnight, making it officially Saturday. Sasori slapped himself on the cheeks a few times, willing his body to keep its energy when he sat back down in front of the canvas. Deidara seemed to have the same problem; the sculptor had moved on to an area he could work at while standing rather than laying down.

Sasori reached for his backpack and rummaged around long enough to find the can he was looking for. The energy drink he’d packed wasn’t pleasant, but it did the job. He popped the tab and took several long sips, trying to jolt his body into a waking state. He’d hardly had time to set the red can down on the floor by his easel when Deidara turned his attention to him.

“What the fuck is that?” he snapped in a way that made Sasori think he wasn’t actually asking. “You can’t drink that, hn!”

Too tired to argue, Sasori shrugged his shoulders in response. This did not bode well with his fellow artist, who had to restrain himself from throwing his wooden tool across the studio at him. Unwilling to give up his argument, Deidara pressed, “That shit will give you cancer. Do you know what that garbage does to your heart?! I get that you have a hard-on for this tragic artist bullshit, but that’s going too far.”

Sasori sighed, his frame sagging on the stool before he turned. His half-lidded brown eyes pinned the sculptor as he asked, “Why do you care?”

“I don’t!” Deidara shouted, balling his hand into a fist. “Do what you want, asshole. Chug that shit and fucking die. Fine, hn.”

That was it. Whether he was overtired or just fed up, Sasori stood from his stool, nearly knocking it over with the speed of his movement. The smaller man’s hands shot out and fisted in the collar of Deidara’s soiled tee-shirt, pulling the blonde down to his level. Faces just inches apart, Sasori’s voice hardened as he demanded “The fuck’s your problem?!”

Deidara slapped his hands away. “The fuck’s _your_ problem?!”

“I don’t give a shit if you hate me,” Sasori growled. “But you need to figure yourself out, you spoiled-rotten brat. Don’t bitch and whine and then act like you care.” He raised his index finger, poking Deidara between the eyes. “If you hate me, _hate me_. Don’t half-ass it like you do everything!”

“What did you just say?” Deidara snarled, squaring his shoulders at his senior.

“Did I stutter? You’re lazy. You don’t commit. You’re a half-baked, pathetic excuse for an artist and you should get the _fuck out_ of this studio before this program eats you alive. Because it will.”

Deidara’s jaw dropped. His lips contorted into a scowl, and before he knew it, he had Sasori pinned to the ground. He straddled Sasori’s waist and had him in a death grip, one hand in his hair and another at his throat. Although Deidara was slightly larger, Sasori was lithe. His fingers groped to the side, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a piece of polished hardwood by Deidara’s tool kit and gripped it, swinging it with the intent to hit him in the head. When the blonde ducked, Sasori was able to free himself from his grip. Both feet planted on his chest and kicked him back, giving him enough time to stand.

The wind flew from Deidara’s lungs when his back hit the concrete floor. He’d only just managed to protect his head from the fall. He scrambled up, clinging to a table for balance. He grabbed a T-square off of the countertop and held it like a boomerang, swinging it wildly to keep Sasori at bay. The scrawny red-head hung back at a safe distance, eyes filled with rage and indignance. If the little fucker wanted a fight, he’d get one.

Sasori staggered to his left, taking refuge behind the screen-printer. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed several jars of screen ink, filled at various levels. Perfect. He risked standing up long enough to throw one of the plastic jars at Deidara. The blonde duked in time, but the plastic jar smashed against the cinderblock wall and shattered, coating him in a vibrant yellow.

Deidara shouted in wordless rage at the offense. Before he could gather himself, another jar of red ink splattered, hitting its mark. That was it. Deidara lowered his center of gravity and ran straight at Sasori. His target dodged around the machine, but he failed to calculate for the one station that actually had a screen attached. The wooden frame jutted out further than the base, and his side was caught. He stumbled, a mistake that allowed Deidara to grab him by putting his two, inky arms underneath Sasori’s and lacing his fingers behind the shorter man’s head.

“Take it back, hn!” Deidara demanded, shouting right into Sasori’s ear.

“Fuck you!” Sasori kicked his captor in the shin with his heel.

“Go ahead! Insult my art one more goddamned time, I dare you!”

The words rolled off his tongue like venom. “Modernist sellout.”

“I’m a post-modernist, you period-blind hack!”

“You _wish_ you were post-modernist!” Sasori barked with sarcasm.

“This coming from the impressionist wanna-be, hn!”

“Post-impressionist!”

The pair of artists broke apart, facing one another with tensed shoulders and clenched fists. They were both panting, red in the face from effort. Yellow, red, and orange ink stained their skin and clothes. Blue eyes met brown as both waited for the other to make the first move.

Sasori took a step, then another, and soon he was closing the distance with purpose. Deidara sank back onto his heels, ready to deliver a counter-blow when he saw his hand raise. The older artist snagged the fabric of his junior’s shirt and pulled him, meeting his lips with a force that was mostly teeth due to Deidara’s clenched jaw. Sasori’s bottom lip split from the impact. Instinctively, his tongue brushed over the wound to wipe away the blood, but Deidara took it as an invitation that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

When Deidara took it upon himself to deepen the kiss, Sasori forced him backward until his shoulders thumped against the cold, unforgiving wall. A possessive growl came from deep within Sasori’s chest, a sound he hadn’t intended to make. The whine it pulled from the other man, however, was incredibly rewarding. Out of a desire to make it happen again, Sasori captured Deidara’s lower lip between his teeth; to his pleasure, he could feel the blonde melt between his body and the wall.

Ink stained hands released their hold to snake underneath Deidara’s shirt, his fingertips leaving streaks of color as they progressed. Their art lay forgotten, half-finished by distracted minds.

* * *

 

Deidara rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he stood wearily in front of the coffee pot, as though watching it would make it brew faster. He wasn’t that lucky, it seemed. When the front door to the apartment flew open, he couldn’t help but wonder if luck had anything to do with it or if he was being punished by one of his roommates’ various gods that had been invoked in the living room during semesters past. He could hear Hidan’s keys land in the ceramic bowl that Deidara had crafted his first semester. Maybe he would just retreat to his bedroom; it was early for Hidan to be awake.

Lady luck gave him the middle finger when his roommate ducked into the kitchen, lured by the smell of dark roast. “Just what I need,” he said with a grin, pulling a mug out of one of the cabinets. When he turned around, he gave a very sleepy Deidara the once-over, taking in his appearance. Seeing the blonde in vibrant sleep pants and a tank top was no surprise; the fact that his skin was now four distinct colors gave him pause. “The fuck happened to you?” To anyone else, his tone would sound derogatory, but Deidara knew better.

Too tired to lie, and unwilling to explain, he stifled a yawn before informing him, “Screen printing incident.”

“Isn’t that the one where you just swipe ink on fabric?” Hidan quirked an eyebrow. “What’d you do, fuck on it?”

Deidara’s barely noticeable wince didn’t go undetected.

Hidan let out a choked laugh. “What?! You _did_! Good for you, Princess!” He clapped Deidara on the shoulder.

“No, I didn’t,” the blonde informed him as he took the now-brewed coffee and filled his mug. “There was just an incident with the ink, and I haven’t had the chance to get the cleaner from the studio to get it out of my skin. It’s just stained, hn; don’t worry, I didn’t get it on anything in the house.”

“How the fuck do you have an ‘incident’ with ink?” Hidan clearly didn’t believe him.

“It’s complicated.”

“Right,” Hidan rolled his eyes before draining his mug of the black coffee. He grabbed the carafe and filled his cup a second time. “Because getting laid is so difficult. Well, maybe for you.” His lips twisted up into a smirk that Deidara wanted to slap off his face.

Trying to change the subject, Deidara mentioned, “Thanks for bringing me food last night, hn.”

“No problem, Sunshine. Somebody’s gotta make sure you don’t die.”

“Deidara,” a familiar voice called from the living room. “I need to borrow some clothes for the studio. Mine are still wet, and we can’t dry them without curing the ink.”

Deidara could only look on in abject horror when Sasori stepped into the kitchen, bare-chested and wearing a pair of Deidara’s sleep pants that were too loose around his hips despite being tied as tightly as he could. His pale skin was stained in a manner similar to his companion’s. Sasori blinked once before looking over at Hidan. “You said he wasn’t home,” he accused, although there wasn’t any bite behind his words.

“You _did_ get laid!” Hidan hooted, slinging an arm around Deidara’s shoulders. His other hand ruffled the hair on the top of his roommate’s head. With mock tears, he choked, “I’m so proud. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Fuck off!” Deidara snapped, shoving Hidan. “It’s none of your business, hn!” He stomped out of the kitchen, capturing a befuddled Sasori by the wrist as he went.

Hidan stuck his head into the hallway and choked back his laughter. “You kids want pancakes?”

His answer came in the form of Deidara’s slamming bedroom door.

**Author's Note:**

> Song lyrics from Green Day's Uno! (2012)  
> 


End file.
